Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (6 page)

Memory slid backwards. He saw again the woodland clearing…
Sergeant Anderson sprawled nearby, and Parnell Sanguinet's black-clad
figure, those pale, macabre eyes narrowed against the afternoon
sunlight. Almost, he could hear the velvety gentleness of that heavily
accented, murderous voice…

He was sweating, and a deep trembling weakened his knees. He
fought memory away.

Bolster was saying, "… so I thought I'd come on here and say
hello to old J-Justin, if he was about."

Leith joined with the ladies to renew his plea that Bolster
stay until the Strands returned, which should be any day now. Delighted
by their eagerness, Bolster agreed to remain. "At least for a few days,
and only t-too glad to accept of your hospitality.

Amid much jubilation, Fisher was summoned and required to ask
Mrs. Hayward to have a room prepared and to lay an extra cover for
luncheon.

Redmond said nothing throughout these proceedings, but when
his lordship made his way upstairs to change his riding dress, he did
not go alone. If there
was
some reason other than
a whim for Bolster having come here, Redmond meant to ferret it out.

"I know you cannot abide children, Mitch," said Lord Bolster,
struggling into a pair of dove-grey pantaloons, "but those two new
cousins of yours, I must admit, ain't all screwed up and red and
screaming like most babies. Shouldn't be surprised b-but what they
turned out to be quite tol-tol-tol-bearable."

Comfortably sprawled in a deep wing chair, Redmond stiffened
and demanded wrathfully, "Who the devil said I cannot abide children?"

"You did! Said they w-was brats and—"

"Oh. Well—dammit, I wouldn't have, had I known—But that
blasted girl was glaring at me as if—Hell and damnation, what are they?"

Bolster stared at him. In less than two years he had watched
Redmond change from a shy, likeable, scholarly boy into an abrasive,
hot-at-hand rake with a predilection for duelling. But he had never
known him to be less than the soul of chivalry where the ladies were
concerned, nor to speak of one in as unflattering terms as he had just
employed. Sitting down on the bed, his lordship took up a shoe and
began to put it on. "Boys. I
said
they was, in
the dr-drawing room just n-now,'' he added in mild reproof.

"My profound apologies," said Redmond acidly. "At the time, I
was thinking of something else, which was rude of me." His eyes drifted
to the open valise on the bed. "Where's your man?"

"Left him in D-Dor-D-Dorset. Didn't mean to stay here, y'know."

Redmond stared thoughtfully at the valise.

Following his gaze, Bolster bit his lip and amended, "Brought
a change of clothes, though. Always the hope I'd be invited to put on
the f-feed bag."

"Do you usually wear a night-cap to dinner?"

Bolster gave a hollow laugh, avoiding Redmond's keen eyes as
he put on the other shoe. "If you must know, Mitch, it was perfectly
d-devilish at the Priory. Place was fairly in-undated with ladies
c-cooing over the newborns. And—and since we're in a prying mood, what
about this alleged duel of yours? Miss Strand told me you took a wound
in the b-back.''

Ice chilled Redmond's eyes. "She should know. She bound it up."

"By Jupiter!" In the act of selecting a beautifully
embroidered waistcoat, Bolster gasped, "Ch-Charity saw your back?"

Redmond snarled, "She managed not to vomit at the sight!"

"C-Course not," said Bolster, desperately retrenching. "Lot of
backbone that girl—Oh, egad! What I mean is—true blue, and all, er,
that."

"She is a sanctimonious, meddling female," said Redmond
deliberately.

"Oh, now really, Mitch! Th-that ain't like you, and—and from
what you say, she helped you when—"

"Well, who the devil asked her?" Springing up, Redmond stamped
to the window and scowled at the pleasure gardens as though yearning to
set a torch to that delightful area. "If you could only have seen the
look on her face when—" He checked, the hands loosely clasped behind
him tightening into fists.

Watching that rigid figure, Bolster's suddenly austere frown
softened. He said gently, "Stupid of me to have said what I did.
Apologies." And in a well-meant but disastrous attempt to make amends,
"Lord knows, she ain't the first to've seen— Well, what I mean
is—you've had enough
affaires de coeur. ''

Redmond growled, "Do you picture me tripping naked around the
boudoir? I assure you it is possible to make love to a woman without
being stripped to the buff!''

Scarlet, Bolster floundered, "I know! I d-didn't mean— Wh-what
I meant was, that Miss Strand—"

"Oh, damn Miss Strand!"

Bolster's eyes opened very wide. Then he tried again. "Yes,
I'm sure you're right, but—"

Over his shoulder Redmond flung a sneering, "What the deuce
d'you mean by that?"

"Nothing. Oh, nothing, 'sure you. Only that—er, well she ain't
quite in your style, of course."

"Have I one?" Turning to face him, Redmond said, "Do, pray,
describe it for me."

Bolster sighed. "I recall your Milanese bird of p-paradise, my
tulip. And the fancy piece you found in Fl-Florence. As for the
Bruxelloise Belle… diamonds of the first water, every one. But I like
Charity Strand. She's a lady, and gentle to boot, and she knows—"

Stung, Redmond interpolated, "She's as elegant as a grey
fieldmouse!'' And he added broodingly, "Yet looks at me as though I
were something—unclean."

Bolster's hands, busied with his waistcoat buttons, stilled.
He looked up, his grave eyes meeting Redmond's squarely.

Redmond flushed. His own lashes drooped, and he strolled over
to lower his tall frame into the chair once more. Drawing a hand across
his eyes, he muttered, "I'm a proper clod to speak so of a lady. You're
perfectly right to look at me in your Peer-ish way." Bolster smiled
faintly but remained silent, and Redmond's head tossed up in a
typically impatient fashion. "What are
you
about,
my friend? This is a dashed long way to come if you don't mean to stay,
I think."

It was the perfect opportunity for Bolster to admit that he
was here in response to a note from Diccon, and Redmond waited, his
eyes alert under their thick lashes.

"Oh—I don't know.'' His lordship strolled to the press and
extracted a splendid dark grey coat of Bath suiting. "What d'you think
of this?" he asked, holding it up for inspection.

"Weston?"

Bolster beamed. "Believe it or not, my lad, it's from a
ch-chap I found in Guildford…"

He rambled on, proud of having found so fine a tailor who was
also less outrageous in his charges than the mighty Weston. It all
sounded very innocuous, but, resting his chin on one hand, Redmond
watched him speculatively. If old Jerry
was
here
to rendezvous with the elusive Diccon, he was being confoundedly adroit
about concealing it, which did not fit the mould. Honest and loyal and
full of pluck was Bolster, but not noted for his mental acuity.

His lordship crossed to the dressing table and began to brush
his straight yellow hair. "Didn't know you was acquainted with Strand,"
he remarked casually. "Good old boy, isn't he?"

"I'm not acquainted with him, actually. Ran into a friend of
his in Paris and was charged with a message for him."

"Jove! Beastly luck to be waylaid for your tr-trouble."

Redmond agreed and said affably that he would rest here for
another day or two and then head back to Town. Jerry, he decided, was
at Strand Hall by pure coincidence. The dear old chap was simply
incapable of deception and could never have managed to behave with such
sang-froid
unless he had indeed nothing to hide.

A bright young man, Mitchell Redmond, who in his days at
Oxford had been his tutor's delight and widely held to have every
chance for a fellowship. That goal, once so assiduously pursued, had
been abandoned many months ago. Perhaps, during the dissolute time that
had followed, some of his brilliance had dimmed. Certain it was that he
did not know Lord Jeremy Bolster quite as well as he supposed.

Charity's joy at recovering the use of her legs after being
confined to an invalid chair for three years manifested itself in her
frequent use of them. The weather had to be very inclement indeed to
force the abandonment of her morning ride or her afternoon walk. There
were many pleasant walks in and around the Strand preserves, and when
Rachel was comfortably settled for the daily nap Dr. Bellows insisted
upon, Charity slipped out of the house and started off across the park,
basket on her arm, in search of bluebells.

The air was quite warm for the time of year; no breeze stirred
the trees, and even the birds seemed to pipe drowsily. As she strolled
along, Charity's thoughts drifted to their guests. Lord Bolster had
come down to luncheon looking very smart in his changed dress. As
usual, he was a cheerful companion, and they had all enjoyed his
account of the new additions to the family of the Marquis of Damon.
Despite his apparently rapid retreat from the Priory, it was obvious
that Bolster had been intrigued by the two baby boys. Charity smiled as
she turned her steps toward the Home Wood. Dear Jerry. What a wonderful
father he would make some day. And Amanda must be the kindest creature
any child could have for a mama.

Their other guest had not come down for luncheon; Bolster had
said he was resting, which was, thought Charity, very obliging of him.
She felt a twinge of guilt. It was unkind to judge so harshly. Mr.
Redmond might still be troubled of his wound; a man could not be
expected to behave in a courteous manner at such a time. At once,
perversely, she could see Devenish lying on the dank cellar floor in
Dinan, patiently enduring while the apothecary cut the crossbow bolt
from his leg. She had thought he must die from the pain of it, but he
had not made a sound, nor uttered a word of complaint through all their
desperate flight back to England, with Claude Sanguinet's hounds
hunting high and low for them… She shuddered and, finding that she had
stopped walking, went on quickly.

The shadows were lengthening across the lush grasses, the
mellow light of late afternoon laying its golden mantle over quiet
meadow and whispering copse. She had wandered through a corner of the
Home Wood, walked much farther than she'd intended, and had not
gathered a single bluebell. She was, in fact, near the lane that formed
the boundary line between the Strand preserves and those of their
northern neighbour, Lord Rickaby. She climbed the gradual slope, beyond
which was the lane, and stood there, gazing about at this green and
pleasant Sussex; so sweetly pure and peaceful…

"Damn and blast your miserable little hide!"

Charity gave a jump of fright, for the irate snarl came from
above her. A hand to her throat, she searched the branches of the
venerable oak that had commandeered this high ground for itself. A
well-shaped leg, clad in tight beige pantaloons, came into view,
groping downward. Harbouring a suspicion that Mitchell Redmond was, as
her brother would have said, "dicked in the nob," Charity slipped
behind a clump of gorse, and watched.

He came down awkwardly, grumbling and cursing as he did so. It
was a precarious climb and twice she held her breath, readying herself
to go to his aid once more, and praying she might know what to do for a
broken back. He was not using his left arm at all, naturally enough,
though if it was as little botheration as he had insisted, one might
think he could do so. But then, as he reached the lowest branch, he
appeared to lose his grip on something he had held in that arm. A small
shape sailed through the air, landed with a thump, and sprawled at the
foot of the tree.

Wide-eyed with astonishment, Charity stood rooted to the spot.
It was Little Patches, the smallest, clumsiest, and most intrepid of
the house cat's latest brood, and the best beloved of all her
contributions.

Peering down at the little creature, Mitchell Redmond called,
"Moggy…? Confound your whiskers—do you mean to die now?"

Charity put a hand over her mouth to stifle a bubble of
laughter. She was even more hard-pressed a second later, for lifting
his deep voice to simulate that high pitch that mankind appears to
consider a requisite tone in calling felines, Redmond squeaked, "Kitty…
kitty…?"

Charity bit her finger.
Redmond
? This
sour, sardonic, snarling rudeness would climb all that way to rescue a
kitten?

Little Patches blinked, gathered herself together dazedly,
then opened a tiny and very pink mouth to emit a shrill mew.

Redmond grinned down at her with proprietory pride. "Take your
blasted fleas home," he said. "Wherever that may be. And have a trifle
more sense next time!"

As though perfectly understanding this speech, Little Patches
proceeded to pick her way with giant kitten strides over the blades of
grass that impeded her progress.

"Will wonders never cease?" whispered Charity.

She had erred. However tiny they might be, kittens have
exceptional hearing. Little Patches looked with joyous recognition in
the direction of the gorse bush and advanced upon it, mewing as she
came, her tail, like a small spear, standing straight up behind her.

Mr. Redmond had turned preparatory to descending, but he was
clearly experiencing some difficulty and at any second must look around
and see that he was being watched. Charity began to back quickly down
the slope, Little Patches increasing her own pace to bound in pursuit.
Charity was not even comfortably out of view, however, when Redmond
glanced her way. She had the presence of mind to shift direction at
once, as though just now arriving. "Little Patches," she exclaimed,
bending to pick up the garrulous animal. As she straightened, Redmond
was in the act of swinging down from the branch. "My heavens!" she
cried, honestly dismayed. "Whatever are you about, Mr. Redmond? You
will hurt yourself!"